As I write this, I imagine my friends are all chatting and drinking coffee as we’d arranged to do this afternoon. I should be there. I had planned to be there. I had spent the last few days excited to be there. But where am I? I’m in bed.
All I did was put on a pair of jeans, a thin t-shirt and a jumper and then flatten my hair. I did all this in silence. I applied no makeup. I hadn’t even wasted any energy laying out my clothes the night before this time because that can leave me exhausted and shrink my chances of being able to actually put them on the next day. This time I went with spontaneity, if you can include pulling any old clothes out of the wardrobe spontaneity.
And what was my reward? It wasn’t getting to meet my friends for a coffee and catch up. No. It was cold sweats and increased fatigue. It was dizziness and trembling legs. It was losing the ability to use my muscles correctly and drink my morning drink without dribbling it down myself.
I have been the model sufferer apparently. The perfect patient; treating my body with the upmost respect and tackling the rehab faultlessly. But for what? What has it done for me?
This is the final straw. So I’m done. I’ve had enough. I’m throwing in the towel. I am not getting anywhere. Literally.
And so for the first time since The Beginning I am giving up and letting myself go to bed to sleep and block it all out. Sod the rehab. Sod the retraining my brain into knowing that sleep is only for nighttime. Sod it all.
Well done M.E. You’ve broken yet another person’s spirit.
M.E. myself and I 